Cry Baby (20 page)

2.10 PM

In the interview room Doyle drops his sheaf of reports and a brown bag on the table, then goes across to the cage. Still sitting on the bench, apparently in the exact same spot he was in when Doyle left him, Albert cocks his head and turns one roving eye on the approaching detective.

‘Did you bring a rabbit?’

‘Uhm, no,’ says Doyle. ‘I did bring you something, though.’ He unbolts the door and swings it wide. ‘Come on out, Albert. Stretch those legs.’

Albert doesn’t move. ‘I don’t want to stretch my legs. They’ll be too long for my body. I like to be in proportion.’

‘Figure of speech, Albert. Come over here, see what I got.’

Albert stands, then shuffles to the doorway of the cage. He pauses at the threshold and looks around, a little like an animal that’s not too sure about sacrificing its familiar surroundings to gain its freedom in the wild, dangerous outdoors. Doyle backs away to the table and waits there, so as not to add to the man’s stress levels.

Eventually, Albert plucks up the courage to step out into the room. He meanders over to join Doyle, taking a roundabout route that makes sense only in his mind.

Says Doyle, ‘Take a seat, Albert. I brought you some lunch. Thought you must be getting hungry by now.’

Albert sits. His
gaze shifts to the bag on the table. He points. ‘What’s in the bag?’

‘Uhm, that’s your lunch. It’s not in my pockets, Albert. It’s there, in the bag.’

‘Oh.’

He makes no move to touch the bag, and his eyes start to rove again.

‘You wanna see what I got you?’

Albert stares at something in the corner of the room, and Doyle has to fight to prevent himself following suit.

‘Sure,’ says Albert, without enthusiasm.

Doyle opens up the bag. ‘First of all…’ He reaches in, pulls out a can of soda. ‘Ta-da! Seven-Up! Didn’t you say you liked Seven-Up the best? And guess what else? Go ahead, Albert, guess.’

But Albert is now too busy looking at the huge two-way mirror on the wall.

‘Why do you have such a big mirror in here? Do you get dressed here? Is this where all the cops try their uniforms on?’

‘Something like that.’ He snaps his fingers a couple of times. ‘Here, Albert, look. Guess what else about the soda?’ He slaps his palm on the table in a show of glee, causing Albert almost to shoot out of his chair. ‘It’s only from the Seven-Eleven. Your favorite store, right? Whaddya think of that?’

But already Albert’s eyes are elsewhere. A tough customer to please, thinks Doyle. Okay, I lied about going to the Seven-Eleven, but he doesn’t know that, so could we show a bit of interest here, please?

‘I got you a cup too. From the water cooler. I know you like those cups. And you know what else I got?’ He reaches into the bag again. ‘I met a guy when I was working a case not so long ago. Reminds me of you a little. He had a thing for corn chips, and especially these…’

Doyle pulls out a bag of Doritos. ‘You like these, Albert? I bet you do.’

Albert scratches behind his ear. ‘Yeah, they’re okay. Although I prefer Cheetos.’

‘Cheetos, huh? Okay, well, you can leave these if you want. But here’s the
piece de resistance
. Are you ready?’

Doyle pulls out the final item in the bag. It’s a sandwich. Ordinarily not something he would make such a fuss over, but hey, whatever works here.

‘What is it?’ asks Albert.

‘It’s a BLT. I took a wild guess at what you might like, but you seem like a BLT kinda guy to me. Am I right? Do you like BLT?’

‘What’s a BLT?’

‘You don’t know what—? It’s bacon, lettuce and tomato.’

‘So why isn’t it called a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich?’

‘Well, it is. Kinda. See, BLT. It’s the initial letters. B for bacon, L for lettuce, T for tomato. Sound good to you? Was it a good choice?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Yeah? Cool. That’s what I was—’

‘Except for the lettuce.’

‘The lettuce?’

‘Yeah. I don’t like lettuce. It’s cold. And wet.’

‘Okay, we can take out the lettuce. Here, let me do that for you…’

‘And the tomato. It’s also cold and wet. And technically it’s a fruit. I don’t do fruit sandwiches.’

‘No,’ says Doyle. ‘When you put it like that, it does sound a little weird. Okay, so out with the tomato. Here – we’ve gone from a BLT to just a B. That okay now?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay, then, so eat. Go ahead.’

‘Yeah.’

For a few seconds, Albert does nothing except scan the room. Then, abruptly, he pounces on the sandwich and takes a bite and starts chewing. And keeps chewing.

‘Uhm, you enjoying that, Albert?’

Albert points to his mouth to indicate he can’t speak right now. Doyle waits. And waits. Finally, Albert makes a huge swallowing noise and smacks his lips.

‘My mom says I have to chew my food properly, or it’ll stick in my throat. She also says I shouldn’t talk with my mouth full.’

‘Good advice, Albert. It sounds like your mother really wanted to keep you safe. She must have loved you. And I bet you loved her too, right?’

Albert’s eyes flicker onto Doyle’s, then drop back onto his sandwich. He grabs it again and takes another bite, as if using it as an excuse for avoiding the question.

Shit, thinks Doyle. Sonofabitch is smarter than he looks.

‘Am I right, Albert? You loved your mother, didn’t you? You would never want to hurt someone close to you like that.’

Chew, chew. More of the snap glances. Only not around the room anymore, but down. Down to the table.

‘You ever argue with your mother? Ever get angry with her?’

He’s not sure Albert is even listening. The table has become a lot more fascinating than Doyle’s questions. So much for my interview technique, thinks Doyle.

What the hell’s he looking at, anyhow?

The corn chips? The soda?

No, not those. Farther away from him. More toward my side of the table.

Doyle looks down. The only things here are the reports he’s been carrying around. Why would Albert—?

He sees it then. Realizes what has grabbed Albert’s attention.

When Doyle came into the room, he casually tossed his paperwork onto the table. The top report shifted out of line a little, exposing the one beneath. And on that second report down is an artist’s reproduction of the numeric digits on the victims’ foreheads. Currently only two of the symbols are visible, the third still being hidden beneath the uppermost document:

‘What is it, Albert? The numbers? You find them interesting?’

Chew, chew.

Doyle waits for him to finish, then asks again: ‘Is there something about these numbers?’

‘Yeah,’ says Albert. ‘Two is prime. Three is prime. Two plus three is five, which is prime. Twenty-three is prime.’

Doyle nods. ‘Prime numbers again, huh? You really like those, don’t you?’

Albert chomps down again. Gives his jaw some more intense exercise.

Doyle stares at the drawings. Tries to see them as someone like Albert might see them. Is there something here? Some mathematical property that hasn’t jumped out at them? Some religious or mystical significance, perhaps? Hard to tell with just two digits.

He waits for the audible swallowing signal, then holds up a finger. ‘Wait up, Albert. I know you’re hungry and all, but you mind taking a break for a second? I need to ask you something.’

Albert sits there with the sandwich half-raised to his lips, seemingly unsure as to what to do. Then he makes one of his sudden decisions and practically throws the sandwich back onto the table. His eyes flutter in a way that suggests he’s a little perturbed by this interruption to his eating.

‘It’s okay,’ says Doyle. ‘You’re not in trouble. I just want your help here.’

He picks up the sheaf of papers, then takes off the top report and puts it to the back. He slides the whole lot across to Albert, who is already staring with puzzlement at the mirror again.

Doyle taps the paperwork. ‘Albert. Look, here. The numbers.’

Albert sneaks a sidelong glance down at the table. It’s so quick that Doyle wonders whether he has taken in the row of three symbols that is now clearly visible:

‘Albert. Did you see them? Did you see the numbers?’